


Bright as a Ghostless Night

by stormwalkers



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Lockwood's Armchair, Plot? Idk her, Porn with Feelings, Romance, Seduction, Smut, lockwood is a grump, lots and lots and lots of foreplay, no but seriously, post-TEG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-17 17:13:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21058028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormwalkers/pseuds/stormwalkers
Summary: A frustrating case leaves Lucy's sword arm bruised almost as bad as Lockwood's ego. They need to unwind, and Lucy knows just the thing.Because some days, sticking a sword in a straw woman just isn't going to cut it.





	Bright as a Ghostless Night

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the incomparable Lockwood & Co. server on Discord. Your unending support for Lockwood thirst means the world.
> 
> And to everyone who's read my stories and decided they were worth a comment, bookmark, kudos or just a few minutes of your time: Thank you with all my heart!

* * *

“Would you believe it, Luce? That awful director from last night’s in the paper. Another shrill ‘opinion piece’ on the irresponsibility of small agencies.”

Lockwood rustled his copy of _The London Times_ as if shaking the words off the page might reveal something more agreeable written underneath.

“Mrs. Bathgate?” I said. I was scanning the shelves for a spot to put the novel I’d given up on. “Already? Feels like she was just chewing our heads off an hour ago.”

“Yes, but it must have been written before,” said Lockwood. “So she can’t have mentioned us specifically. Still, I wouldn’t be surprised if she went straight to the press. I’ve never seen someone less happy to be free of ghosts.”

I slotted in my paperback between a volume of Plato and a great tome called_ Ghostlore among the Dayak Tribes of Borneo._ “That’s not true. Remember the chap from the Newham Fitness Club? He was flustered.”

“Ah, yes. That ghost _had_ been the only thing guarding his secret collection of stolen gym shorts, though.”

“Right, that may have had something to do with it.”

It was a bright, clear winter’s day at 35 Portland Row. The white light of midday streamed through the library windows. The fireplace was on, its pleasant scent warming the room. I'd nested in the couch, drifting in and out of sleep while Lockwood flipped through today's papers. I'd tried reading too, but my eyes had trouble focusing.

I turned to where Lockwood was lounging in his favourite armchair. For once, he was sitting upright in it. His long legs were crossed in front of him, feet resting on the floor. As he read, he combed a finger distractedly through his hair; an errant curl kept springing up behind his ear. He was wearing his usual white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark trousers and woollen socks. The clear light spilling in from the window was really agreeing with him.

I shuffled my feet. The longer I looked at Lockwood, the more ideas whirred to life inside my head.

I sat next to him on the armrest of the chair. “What’s this, then?” I asked, and he held up the article for me to see.

“Look at that,” he said. “_‘Independent agencies: Benefit or burden?’_Benefit, I’d say. If it weren’t for us, Mrs. Bathgate would still be negotiating house prices with a Spectre breathing down her neck.”

He was talking about last night’s case, which we’d spent the morning recuperating from.

The job had required all hands on deck: Lockwood, George, Holly, Quill, and myself, fully kitted out for a dangerous operation. The headquarters of a local real estate firm—small, shabby, lit like a post-apocalyptic dentist’s office—had been Visited by the Georgian cobbler who had once kept shop there. A Spectre, he was, pale and milky-eyed and out to give us a hard time. The sun was nearly up by the time we’d found our Source: a wooden shoemaking awl hidden deep under the floorboards.

According to George, the cobbler had cruelly mistreated his young apprentice. Years of abuse had come to a head when the lad had finally snapped and driven the nearest pointy object—an awl—deep into his master’s eyes, one after the other. The apprentice had then run for the hills, his fate unknown. Permanently blinded and unable to work, the cobbler was ruined; before the turning of the season, he’d fixed a noose around his neck.

I didn’t exactly have oodles of sympathy for his ghost.

What was worse, the investigation had been seriously held up by the owner of the real estate firm, a Mrs. Bathgate. She was of a certain type of client that had recently come into existence: those who believed the last reputable psychic detection agency to have fallen the day Fittes House went up in flames. Mrs. Bathgate had no patience for us, no trust in our methods, and no problem telling us so. Most shockingly, she was impervious to the Lockwood Effect™. His fantastic charm had bounced right off her; instead of being swayed, she’d called him a “self-important cockerel.”

At midnight, we’d miraculously still been working the case when the idiotic Mrs. Bathgate had marched into the building. She’d claimed to have heard a window breaking (untrue). We’d had the Spectre cornered; the shock of having a snooty adult pop up to squawk about property damage had nearly got us all ghost-touched.

Lockwood, who didn’t relish having his carefully laid plans blown sky-high, had been seconds from losing his cool. Thankfully, Quill had put his trademark Fittes diplomacy to use and escorted the woman to safety.

When the time had come to ruin her floorboards, we hadn’t been particularly careful about it.

We’d finally wrapped up around 5 o’clock. The Source had been safely contained; cups of strong tea had been drunk, necessary papers begrudgingly signed. Then, surly and sore and covered in cobwebs, sawdust, and what could only be a sprinkle of rat droppings on Quill’s jacket, we’d headed home.

For a moment, it had been up in the air whether a brand new ghost would be replacing the blind cobbler that night. But instead of wringing Mrs. Bathgate’s neck, Lockwood had stayed professional. We’d dealt with our share of difficult clients before, and he wasn’t one to blow a fuse. He was too good a leader.

Me, I would have gladly stepped in to do the neck-wringing for him.

“Is your arm okay?” That was Lockwood at my side. He grasped my forearm gently.

“No worse than the last six times you asked,” I said. Then I smiled at him. “Thanks. Really.”

He brushed his thumb down the inside of my arm, then carefully pulled up my sleeve. A bruise was blooming where my sword and I had collided with a wall last night. Our Spectre had been just around the corner, and the appearance of Mrs. Bathgate had startled me so much I’d spun directly into solid brick. It wasn’t serious, just a bit achy. It had only added to my annoyance. Swelled-up bruises like that never did me any favours; Lockwood always wore his with a sort of piratical swagger about them. As with pretty much everything except shorts, he pulled them off. But unlike me, he'd got through this particular case unscathed. Well, unless the blow to his ego counted.

Our eyes met. Then Lockwood lifted my arm and softly kissed the inside of my wrist. It flooded my entire being with warmth. His eyelashes fluttered against the bluish edge of the injury; it was right next to an old scar.

I didn’t blame him for worrying about my arm or wanting to check on it. I knew we were thinking about the same thing. A hitman had cut me there once.

So, we'd been bruised and battered and insulted all night. We'd been up against a frightful ghost only to be practically boohed out by the same old fishwife who'd nearly botched the operation. Needless to say, all five members of Lockwood & Co. were pretty much spent. We’d decided to take it easy for the weekend—a very rare occasion.

Aside from Lockwood and myself, the house was empty. Holly had requested the day off for a date with Jiya. George had decided it was high time he spent a weekend at his mum’s. He’d worked himself to the bone researching our friend, the cobbler. Quill, too, was taking a holiday; something about a wellness retreat out of town (on grounds of, and I quote, “chronic soul-sucking headaches from being a consultant for Lockwood & Co.”). They’d all left after breakfast. With our friends getting some well-deserved time off, it was just Lockwood and me, alone at Portland Row. Relaxing in the library, fireplace crackling with warm flames. Nobody around for many hours yet.

For what I had planned for us today, this arrangement would work just fine.

Then Lockwood spoke. "I can't believe she put you in danger like that."

“Forget about the case,” I said, intertwining our fingers. “It's over, Lockwood.”

“I know, Luce. I’m just tired of being underestimated.”

“Yeah, but Bathgate had a chip on her shoulder the size of France.”

“Too right. Didn’t want her business invaded by ’a shoddy band of toddlers,’ she said. Shoddy! Bold words from someone whose main office looks like it was last cleaned by that 18th century shoemaker. Honestly, the ghost was the least of her problems.”

“You know her type. Impossible. They can’t make sense of what happened with Fittes, and now they don’t know who to trust.”

Lockwood gave the paper a shake, straightening the pages. “You’re right, of course, Lucy,” he sighed. “It’s just typical. Fittes goes rogue and they find a way to blame _us_ for blowing up the operation. As if old Marissa didn’t do a bang-up job of it herself.”

“Yeah.” I put a hand to the nape of his neck, nuzzling him with my thumb. “And they don’t even know there was an actual bomb.”

He muffled his forehead into my shoulder. “‘A self-important cockerel.’”

“I know.”

“_Cockerel,_ Luce.”

“I’m sorry, Lockwood,” I said, suppressing a smile. I pressed my lips to his temple, directing it there instead. “I’m sure you’ve been called worse.”

“I have.” Lockwood sighed against me. He planted a kiss on my shoulder, one on my jaw, and another on my cheek. “Did you know,” he said, “that I adore you?”

I let the smile take over. “Yes.”

“Good. Just checking.”

“It’s nice to be reminded.”

He kissed my cheek again, then turned his attention back to the paper. He was smiling, but I could tell he was still miffed about that case. So was I, to be honest.

Here’s the thing. Mrs. Bathgate belonged to that tiny minority of people insusceptible to Lockwood’s charms (other examples being Inspector Barnes and Flo Bones). But her insults echoed a broader misconception.

At Lockwood & Co., we were constantly hearing for our lack of supervisors. We were used to being underestimated, even after so many high-profile cases. But there was one presumption that _really_ irked me: the presumption that Lockwood was some cold, calculating sweet-talker who got his way by flashing a grin and batting his eyelashes. That his highest level of concern began with himself, and everything else existed in concentric circles of lessening importance as it got further away from him. It annoyed me when people said this, particularly if those people were haunted skulls in jars.

Not that Lockwood didn’t have an egotistical bone in his body. He could be shamelessly self-involved—mostly when it came to his public image and his professional capacity. He was quite vain, sure (I wasn’t allowed to muss up his hair unless we weren’t seeing anyone for at least six hours), but not vainglorious. His old fervour in the fight against ghosts would always be a part of him, but he was no longer acting the part of the crusading knight charging recklessly into the fray. Cold and calculating? No. _That_ was fantastically untrue. Lockwood had a great big heart, and his capacity for love was enormous. We who were close to him were lucky to share in it.

Of course, _my_ share was rather different from anyone else’s. Lockwood needed someone by his side, someone to remind him of what he had to live for. Someone to love.

That someone had wound up being me. And I didn’t mind at all.

Exactly three months earlier, I’d told him as much. It had been the night of our first kiss; a night of talking and laughing and also pausing several times when either Lockwood or I would lean in for something nicer to do with our mouths. I’d wondered several times if I was really asleep and dreaming back in my attic bedroom.

The following weeks had been unreal. A soft, gauzy dream. Pretty soon we were getting up to more than just kissing, and well, if I hadn’t minded before _then_…

Not that we’d immediately succumbed to the throes of passion or anything. No blindingly awesome, on-the-spot deflowering borne from years of thwarted longing. Nothing like that. Actually, the idea of sex had carried the same general unease as the prospect of passing through a spirit gate uncloaked. Neither of us had done anything of the sort before. I’d certainly built it up in my mind, trying to reconcile my desire to be closer to Lockwood with my fear of mucking it all up somehow.

But you know us—we never lingered on a threshold for long, even if we were scared of tripping and falling on our faces.

And it had been like coming upon new ground together. Like stepping onto fresh, unploughed soil. We didn’t know what kind of crops were going to grow, but it was _our_ soil, and we were going to take care of it. In many ways the opposite of wading through a freezing cesspit of ghosts. Then again, not really; that had been quite the bonding experience, too.

One thing was certain: Lockwood and I had survived far more treacherous and off-kilter spots than the stumbling first stages of a relationship.

I looked at him now, watching his eyes as they scanned the words of the paper. His eyelids were heavy, long lashes bowing like black flowers in the rain.

Yeah, maybe not like flowers, exactly. I was pretty tired. Tired… But not _too_ tired. Not yet.

We’d spent that morning in the rapier room, ridding ourselves of last night’s frustrations. As usual, Floating Joe and Lady Esmeralda the Second had proved worthy opponents.

But I had a better idea in mind for us. One that didn’t involve straw dummies or training rapiers.

The clock on the wall ticked and tocked. The fireplace kept crackling, embers whirling lazily around. Lockwood read on; he flipped to the next page, setting his eyes on a headline about a Raw-bones in a closet. I watched him from my perch on the armrest.

Somewhere inside me, a tide was rising.

With Lockwood, I was used to having to push a bit. Never too hard, just the occasional nudge to help him open up… or take a hint. My hand found its way to the nape of his neck, gently tugging at his hair. The message, I thought, was clear: _Pay attention to me, you dolt._

When he didn’t look up, I crept my hand down his back. Through his shirt, my fingers circled the top of his spine. “I’m bored,” I ventured.

Lockwood flipped another page. “If you want tea, I’ll make us some in a bit.”

“I don’t want tea,” I said. Then I slid down the arm of the chair, coming to rest in his lap. “I want to have sex.”

The newspaper he’d been reading was thoroughly crushed beneath me. He glanced at it, slightly miffed, instinctively curling an arm about my waist. He then spent a good few seconds trying to rescue the wrinkled remains from under my thigh—before suddenly freezing in place. His eyes jolted up to find me looking at him the way an unimpressed customer in a café queue might look at an absent-minded server.

“What? Now?” Lockwood blinked. “…With me?”

All out of sarcastic responses, I resisted the urge to swat him across the back of the head. “Yes, Lockwood,” I said. “With you.”

You could almost see the light switching on behind his eyes. It was the same look he sometimes had when struck by a grand idea on cases—the stare of a long-gone astronaut touching down on earth. He looked at me with the beginnings of a smile on his face and said, “Is that a fact?”

“It is,” I said, smiling right back.

“Gotta be honest, Luce, I’d have thought you’d be wiped out from our session downstairs.”

“You think _that’s_ as far as my stamina goes? I’m not that easily spent.”

“Not usually, but you really let me have it down there. I must say your technique has improved.” Lockwood’s hand was firm on my waist, fingers playfully tapping at my hip.

“Thanks. It’s nothing, really.” I lowered my gaze. “Next time, you’ll have to sharpen your sword better.”

“I’ll be sure to remember.” He leaned back in the chair. “Might convince Quill to get new rapiers sorted for us once he’s back from holiday. The ones we used down in the basement are practically bending into pretzels.”

“I know! They’re awful. They couldn’t cut through soggy cake. Good match, though.”

“It was. So—_what_ did you say after ruthlessly crushing my paper, again?” He fixed me with his dark eyes, and my heart did a flip.

“Oh, well…” I stretched my legs, resting them across his lap and over the armrest. The papery mess that used to be today’s _London Times_ slipped off Lockwood’s knee and fell to the floor.

Now, my legs aren’t nearly as long as his, and they didn’t drape quite as decoratively across the chair as when he’d do it. No matter. The change of position had served its purpose—to strike Lockwood dumb. It also allowed him to slot a warm hand in between my knees, which was a nice bonus. While he found his voice, I touched my hand to his and placed the other at his cheek.

“I want to have sex with you,” I said. “Do you want to have sex with me?”

“Gosh, Luce,” he breathed, half laughing. “When you put it so delicately…”

I went back to tugging at his hair. “Thought you might still be upset from last night. It’s okay if you’re not keen.”

“I _am_ keen,” he said, suddenly serious. His face was tinged with a pink flush, presumably mirroring my own. “Very much.”

“Is that a fact?” I said, partly to be cheeky and partly to make sure he meant it. If he’d rather have a cup of tea and a chat, then that’s what we’d have. But Lockwood’s face was sincerity itself, and it filled me with warmth. Even after three months, shyness could still sneak up on me. I was beginning to think that might never change.

“Yes. I think it’s an excellent idea.” Lockwood’s hand brushed along my leg, leaving tiny goosebumps in its wake. His smile was of the sort reserved only for me. In the official Index of Lockwood Smiles™, this one was unmistakable: subtle and reverent and real. As always, it made me feel like I was made of sunlight. “Let’s put the tea on hold for now,” he said. “Do you want to go upstairs?”

“No,” I said softly, and then I kissed him.

Lockwood breathed against my mouth, a happy gasp of surprise. Placing my hands on the back of his neck, I fell into his lips, into his tongue, into _him_. It was the kind of kiss that made me remember I was alive and happier for it, the kind of kiss that felt healing. That’s what it was to be with Lockwood. Soothing and sweet and life-affirming, hearts beating to a shared rhythm. It was trust and reassurance and honesty. It was undying devotion.

And it was getting to kiss each other absolutely silly.

He broke away, one hand raking through my hair and the other taking an exploratory tour of my hip area. “In _here?” _he breathed, not quite believing it.

I glanced around the empty library, then raised an eyebrow and said, “Do you _want_ to move?”

Lockwood briefly considered our tangled limbs and travelling hands. Our clothes, well on their way to escaping waistbands and belts. My leggings, already halfway down my legs. My thigh, pressed against the growing hardness at his front.

He looked at me and shook his head. “Not in the slightest.”

That was all I needed to hear. With a bit of effort, I lifted myself up and swung a leg to either side of him, where balance became an issue; I had to clutch at the chair with one hand and Lockwood’s shoulder with the other. His hands were on me in an instant, supporting my back.

“Hold onto me,” I half laughed.

“I was planning on it,” said Lockwood, sliding his hands under my skirt and gripping tightly until I was properly straddling him. He smiled. “Are you quite comfortable?”

“I am, thank you.”

“Just like this, then?”

“That was the general idea.” I smiled back. While we’d been talking, my jumper had been steadily freeing itself from the confines of my skirt and was now rumpling up around my ribs. Somehow, the top and bottom buttons of Lockwood’s shirt were coming loose as well. Fancy that.

Our eyes met, and when his long fingers splayed around my waist, thumbs tracing the lines of my hips, I had to suppress a moan. I could have quivered with the effort. Suddenly missing his lips enormously, I dove back in. We made contact with a rather unromantic squelching sound, and I think I jammed my knee into his hip bone—but I didn’t mind, because Lockwood’s mouth was back on mine.

We’d worked out our own way of speaking, Lockwood and I, with no words at all. It wasn’t much different from the way we worked together on jobs, really. Cues and gestures and mindful looks, staying completely in tune with each other… Except with less risk of death and added kissing. Lots of it. The kiss from before, the one that had felt healing? That had been one of many types of kisses I’d come to know in the past few months. Different types, different meanings.

There were slow kisses, and there were quick kisses. Tiny brushes against temples and cheeks, butterfly kisses landing on wrists and necks. Kisses as natural follow-ups to hugs. There were weary kisses, soft and lazy after a long night’s work or an afternoon nap; kisses to say good morning and goodnight, lingering a bit as if imprinting themselves on our lips until next time.

There were the mid-case kisses, too—one such kiss had occurred at the haunted real estate firm. These were quick pecks shared between manifestations and psychic encounters; teeth clacking, mouths mostly missing, a flash of heat in a haunted room. Frantic kisses to say _Thank God we’re alive, _or _Why the hell did you do that, you stupid knob,_ or _I saw the move you did with that rapier, and it’s got me very keen to finish up, go home and roll into bed with you._ (That last one was mostly me.)

And then… the kisses following that. You can probably guess what _those_ were like. The breathy, feverish kisses. The can’t-stay-upright kisses. The wild, splintering, heady kisses with gasps in between. All wound about each other as if trying to stay stuck that way forever, like my mother said would happen if you pulled a face for too long. Tumbling into bed, dizzy with love.

You know, that sort of kiss.

_Love_. I still had trouble believing I was really allowed such a thing. Now that I’d acknowledged this part of me, the part that loved fiercely and freely, it kind of scared me. The mystery of love, the extraordinary bigness of it… I wanted, wanted, _wanted_, wanted Lockwood, so badly. I wasn’t used to openly wanting anything—anyone—this much.

Taking off your clothes? That bit’s easy. Even in front of each other, once you’ve done it a few times (not that I’ll ever forget the sheer anguish of undressing for Lockwood that first time—he’d promptly soothed my nerves, though, in a hands-on manner). But that’s not being truly naked, is it? That’s not where you’re most vulnerable.

Of course, there was no one I’d rather make myself vulnerable for than Lockwood. It was unavoidable anyway. It always had been, for both of us.

All that aside, most of our kisses were tender, unhurried things. Thumbs brushing at cheeks, arms curling around waists, breaths intermingling like the smoke of two candles softly melting together. Safe and gentle.

_This_ kiss was neither safe nor gentle. It was hungry and hard and anticipating more; closer to a pair of bonfires, embers awhirl, than candles. I hooked my arms around Lockwood’s shoulders, and we shrugged my leggings the rest of the way off. His mouth was open and wonderfully hot against mine. We drew apart only when air became a necessity, lips lingering deliciously as we took our breaths. Strong fingers pressed on my waist and started downward, sliding between my bare thighs. Then I opened my eyes for no other purpose, really, than to look at him. Lockwood, my Lockwood. Flushed and lovely. His face followed mine as I drew back. He looked just about ready to hurtle off a cliff—and that’s where I intended to take him. So I leaned back to get my jumper out of the way, careful not to snag it on my necklace or bump my bruise. It pooled into a woollen bundle on the library floor, leaving me in my bra.

In keeping with my legendary fashion sense, it was a plain black racerback selected from my extensive collection of four plain black racerbacks. Practical, comfortable, and extraordinarily unsexy. How many times had Holly insisted on taking me underwear shopping? Clearly not enough, and I’d seen her battle murderous ghosts with less fervour.

Not that I suspected Lockwood of being bothered. When I looked back to him, he was surveying me in that way of his. The way (I like to think) he must have looked at me even before our relationship changed, but I’d been too caught up in my own tangled feelings to notice. The look that unravelled me every time, like… It’s hard to describe, really.

Already missing his closeness, I dipped in to attack him again, which was when my necklace swung forward. Like a fresh drop of rainwater, the pendant flicked Lockwood’s chin with a tiny, clear glimmer. I stopped short, touching my forehead to his.

There it was; _that_ was it. The way Lockwood was looking at me now had the same effect as my necklace, how I’d felt the day I’d received it: as if that little sapphire was imbued with a legacy of light and love, all shining out on me. All mine to hold, to carry next to my heart.

It was no small thing.

Lockwood’s eyes travelled. His pupils dilated, subtly engulfing the dark of his irises. The difference might have been lost on anyone who didn’t know those eyes as I did. I wanted to feel his bare skin, to be even closer, and it couldn’t wait another minute, so I helped him shrug off his shirt. Cast aside, it joined my jumper on the floor.

My heart stopped for at least a second, which couldn’t be healthy, but I didn’t care. Lockwood with his shirt off was a veritable study in anatomy. For a few appreciative moments, I took him in; the gorgeous grooves and ridges of his torso, the curves of those slender shoulders, the sprinkle of moles I’d only recently been allowed to map. He looked so delicate, pale and slim, and so strong at the same time. The lines of his collarbone curved into his throat, unfurling like the wings of a great butterfly. He took a breath. And then it was Lockwood grabbing me by the arms, pulling me close, kissing me hard. There was no point in suppressing the noise in my throat this time.

_Definitely_ that sort of kiss.

I held him tight, hot thrills running through my belly. When his tongue pressed against mine, it tickled all the way to the back of my throat; and when his lips moved down my neck, blood rushed to every spot they touched. He traced his fingers up my ribs, his touch as gentle as a fairy’s footsteps. Finally, he pinched his thumbs under my bra to pull it up. Now, there was one clear advantage to sports style bras, at least for poor Lockwood: the straps in the back crisscrossed along a stretchy band of fabric, meaning no bothersome clasps.

Here’s the thing. Lockwood could unclip a magnesium flare as fast as a magnet flies. He could draw his rapier and spear a ghost in one sweeping motion. He could pick any lock with a magician’s finesse, wield dual salt-guns, and tie a tie in seventeen different fashions. But unhooking my bra? No. From the first time he’d been presented with the challenge, the struggle of loosening that tiny metal clasp had proved too severe. My bubbling laughter at his attempts hadn’t made it any easier. For the sake of Lockwood’s self-respect, a change of style had been necessary. I’d rather wear bras that slipped on (or off) overhead than have him muck about for ages before finally reaching back and freeing myself. We simply didn’t have the time.

Besides, there was something to be said about the way the fabric pushed and pulled as it travelled upward, letting my breasts drop free on release. Judging by the look on Lockwood’s face now, I had a feeling he agreed.

Before I had a chance to enjoy that look, which was just as dumbfounded as the first time he’d seen me naked, he took me in his hands and pressed his lips to the warm spot in between. His tongue strayed along the curves of my breasts; he could probably feel my flush, the tremendous heat coursing through me. I dug my fingers in to press him closer while his hands squeezed and his lips wandered. He sucked at one nipple, then the other, and might have left burn marks on my skin. I nearly told him to bite down harder, hard enough for bruises to bloom. Little red roses from Lockwood’s mouth. But I could barely form words, let alone commands. Somewhere beneath his lips, my heart sang. I hoped he could hear.

Our fingers found each other, weaving together. When Lockwood came up to meet me, I pressed a kiss to the reddened corner of his mouth. At least that’s what I was aiming for—really, it ended up somewhere between his right nostril and front teeth, which might have been okay, but I soothed my original target with an extra kiss anyway.

In my excitement, I ran a hand down his stomach, reaching for the ache I knew was growing unbearable inside his trousers. He caught me, gently.

“Give me a moment,” he stammered. I couldn’t tell if that was his Adam’s apple or his actual pulse visibly bobbing in his throat.

“Do you still want to go on?” I asked. My voice was a bit shaky, having just now regained the ability to make words. I started to draw back.

Like a deer hearing the snap of a twig under a hunter’s boot, Lockwood froze; his eyes whipped to mine. “Yes,” he said, grasping at my forearms and pulling me back. “Hell yes. Just need to, uh, pace myself. Or I won’t be able to… Later.”

Oh. _Oh._ “Would that be so bad?”

“Well, this is my favourite chair. I’m trying to preserve the upholstery, Luce.”

The implications of his words made a fire hydrant sputter somewhere inside me. I was probably about as red as one, too. My mind filled with shameful thoughts: _I’d rather you make a mess on me than the chair anyway._

I shuffled in his lap. “Lockwood…”

He’d been stroking the inside of my thigh, looking around as if calculating the most efficient route for my knickers to come off. Now he flicked his eyes to mine.

“Another time,” I said, my cheeks warming furiously, “somewhere else than here—can you not try to preserve anything? Maybe… Maybe get it on me instead.”

Now it was Lockwood’s turn to flush crimson; his breath audibly hitched, and I swear I felt a twitch from under me. Eyes trained on mine, he nodded. It was slightly too frantic to be a sexy sort of nod, but it _was_ adorable. I took his hands in mine and kissed him, slow and sweet.

The kiss went on for a bit, and when it was over, Lockwood gave a cough. “Not in the chair, though.”

I shook my head. “Not in the chair.”

“But that doesn’t mean we have to move.” And then his hands were sliding up my skirt to settle at my hips, thumbs fitting perfectly into the dips by my thighs. He gave an appreciative squeeze, and his fingers brushed a particularly sensitive spot under my belly. I could have melted into a puddle and ruined the chair myself. I quite nearly did, falling into him with a happy sigh and touching my lips to his temple.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Lockwood sneak a hand to his zip. He was beginning to free himself.

“Well, don’t start without me,” I said. I think I actually giggled, I was so far gone.

Lockwood smiled (one of the playful, squinty-eyed smiles from The Index™), then grasped at me, guiding my hands down. Following him, I hooked my fingers into his waistband and pulled.

When he sprang free, one thing became obvious: If anything was being preserved, it was clearly Lockwood’s self-restraint. He was hard as iron, and the evidence was trapped between us; it rose up to brush my belly. I could almost feel his ache when I took him in my hand, aligning him with the toughened grooves of my palm. I got a little whimper for my trouble.

On a sudden fancy, I heaved myself to my knees and squatted over him. Then, pinching the front part of my knickers aside, I began sliding myself across the length of him. Slowly, wetly, never quite taking him in. It was probably more exercise than elegant, but I liked watching him choke on air as I wetted the tip of his erection.

I clutched at the chair—losing balance and falling on him now could put a very painful end to the merrymaking—and gave a look that hopefully came across as sensual. If the strain was showing on my face, Lockwood was too busy desperately arching back to notice. He was practically levitating off the chair to keep himself in check. There was weakness in his eyes, and he gave the softest whine. It made me want to plunge down and swallow him up then and there. But I couldn’t, not just yet.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Lucy, you—I’m—I love you.“

“I love you.” I grinned, moving back and carefully lowering myself. It wasn’t our first time saying the words, not by a long chalk, but they kindled something bright and joyous inside me every time. My belly did somersaults, and it only made me more keen on what was coming. There was one thing to take care of first, though.

I reached into my skirt pocket, fumbling about with shaky hands, and drew out a tiny square packet. It hadn’t fallen out, thank God—I didn’t fancy searching the floor on all fours like George had done the previous week after dropping his glasses mid-clean.

Lockwood’s eyes widened. “You came prepared,” he said, grinning as I handed him the condom. We generally took turns stocking up on protection (this being one of the more red-faced transactions at Arif’s), and I’d brought one of mine into the library. You know, just in case.

“An agent should always be well-prepared,” I said matter-of-factly. “Isn’t that the golden rule of any agency?”

“You’re thinking of the silver rule. The golden rule is ‘Sleep whenever you can.’”

“Oh, sod off, Lockwood! Like you’ve _ever_ kept that rule.”

“I never claimed to be a brilliant role model.” He popped open the packet and peeled out its contents. “You do as I say, Luce, not as I do.”

I watched him roll the condom on, his fingers moving quickly and deftly, and the sight was devastating. The prickling between my legs grew stronger—along with my giddy impatience. I brushed my hair behind my ears.

“Well, right now,” I said softly, “I need _you_ to do as _I_ say.”

Lockwood gave a jolt. I could almost see his mouth go dry.

“Off,” I breathed, lifting my hips and kneeling over him again. “Take them off.”

A quivering noise came from deep in his throat. With great abandon, he lifted my skirt. My knickers were already soaked through; they might have come straight from the washer. He worked his long fingers in and pulled them down my thighs.

A fine, clear, wet string clung to the fabric as it went.

Lockwood looked ready to faint into the chair.

I didn’t attempt to shrug off the sopping wet dishrag that used to be my underpants without moving. Instead, I sat in Lockwood’s lap—careful not to crack right down on his hardness—and swung my aching legs across the armrests to wriggle my knickers all the way off.

And that was all the legwork done. We sat together for a few silent moments, half naked, just looking at each other. Lockwood’s black eyes gleamed at me, bright as a ghostless night.

Then his hand came up to cup my cheek, moving hair out of my face. And he kissed me, he kissed me like it was the first time. Like we were back in that haunted room three months ago, arms and legs tangled together, silver-wrapped Source laying beside us. Kissing because we couldn’t resist anymore. My arms curled around Lockwood’s neck; he held me a little tighter.

Then, all of a sudden, his hand was under me, long fingers coming up between my legs. Coming away wet. A soft cry escaped me and was muffled into his shoulder. I rolled my hips against his hand, tucking in my legs. For a few brilliant moments, Lockwood worked at me in a glorious wet slide. It was his rapier hand; the hardened callouses of his palm felt so incredible, I thought I might finish right then and there. I sank into the chair until I couldn’t take it anymore.

And then it was me, sticky slick at the thighs, repositioning myself above him, a leg on each side. It was him tightening against me, one hand strangling the fabric of my skirt, the other gripping the nearest armrest like a lifeline. I could have lost myself to the look in his eyes, like he was giving his okay. Everything about him was alert and present, his body taut, upright, ready for me. His cheeks were flushed. In that moment, I thought he was more beautiful than ever.

And so I opened myself to him.

This bit usually took a few tries to get right. Things had to be lined up just so, at the right angle, not too low, not too high. And Lockwood… Well, this particular part of him certainly took up more space than his fingers. With a precious mix of concentration and impatience on his face, he prodded and shifted against me, and then—

All of a sudden, that familiar swell entered me, and we were aligned. Perfectly so. The sensation pulled a ragged gasp out of my throat; Lockwood threw his head back, just as he sometimes did when laughing. Our eyes found each other.

Everything was as it should be.

I took him in, carefully lowering myself around him and guiding him the best I could. My arms slipped around his neck and shoulders, and I let him lay into me. Deeper, deeper still. I wanted my fill of him, wanted it badly. My heart quivered; soft cries rose from my mouth like puffs of steam. Lockwood stretched his neck to meet me in a wet kiss.

We took up a rhythm, like a duet; a slow one, but only as the roaring roll of thunder before a lightning strike is slow. Every motion, every roll, every push turned to electricity inside me. And he was looking at me, just looking, and it sent my heart racing. I was lightheaded, giddy with love. It seemed a tangible, physical thing, something I was showing Lockwood, showing him with everything in me, and he was doing the same in return.

There was a soft, wet slip as my hips rolled faster against him, and he gave a strangled moan. High-pitched and hungry and so, so sweet. The noises he made were maddening, pouring from his mouth as if they wouldn’t stay in. And _I_ was the cause of them. A little surge of power rushed through me; I moved faster, harder, riding it like a wave. Lockwood crashed against the backrest, pinning me to him. His moans turned deep and throaty. I could have stayed in that chair forever, with that lovely sound in my ear.

It was like our own private eternity. Being together like this—it opened up a time and a space outside of anything measurable, irrelevant to those scientific theories George liked to ponder. It was a galaxy in orbit, infinity for the two of us. Lockwood inside me, Lockwood everywhere. Every curve and detail of him open to me, every little sound made just for me. I braced myself against the chair, careful not to lose balance as he pushed in deeper; a lovely sharp tang shot through me, striking that sweet spot between pleasure and pain. _Yes, _I would have said if I’d had the energy to spare. _More, more, more._

I leaned back to gently strain against the swell of him, pushing hair out of my face. Lockwood caught my eye and gave me a smile which, considering the fact that he was currently inside me, was absurdly casual; he might have asked me to pass the jam at breakfast. I couldn’t help but laugh, which in turn made him laugh, and our hands found each other, sweat-slicked fingers intertwining. Bit of a squelch there, but I didn’t care. It turned out sex involved a lot of stupid, happy laughter that I hadn’t expected before. Of course, I hadn’t known much at all—or even thought about it—before those strange and powerful urges began popping up. With Lockwood, I was happy to explore.

Our laughter rolled away with the rhythm of our bodies, melting into moans. And then there was only the hot rush of blood to my centre and the delirious tightness there. Coiling, writhing, bracing itself. My thighs were growing sore; Lockwood, bless him, kneaded at them to keep the circulation going. I rasped and heaved and revelled in his closeness, pulling him close and letting him kiss along my neck… In short, he was all over me_._

For a moment, I imagined the Lucy of two years ago, of _one_ year ago. The Lucy of a few months earlier, even. I imagined telling her that someday, she’d be here. With Lockwood. Together and very much alive. She could have used that splash of reality—and a good bucking up from all her worrying.

I smiled, a huge and happy and probably goofy smile.

I felt I might smile for the rest of my life.

Nothing in the world compared to this feeling. Not the thrill of a successful case, not the first sliver of daylight after a long, bleak night; not George’s homemade shepherd’s pie or even freshly brewed Pitkin’s tea on summer mornings. Being with Lockwood was as reliable as the sun, and as big and bright, too. Enough with the terror and trauma and loss. After everything we’d been through, we deserved light, and we deserved love. Pure and simple.

As Lockwood clung to my waist, driving in harder—closer and closer—the heart of my necklace bopped against my breast. When I looked down, a tiny blue twinkle danced at the corner of my eye. Sweat gathered at my collarbone, moistening the gold chain. I hugged him tighter, lips at his temple, fingers digging into his back, trusting him to hold me together. I was having him from everywhere, straining and soaring and coming unglued, and the sensation filled my entire being, filled it to bursting. A few more seconds, and I’d be seeing stars.

Lockwood, all mine, all over. His mouth was at my ear, breath hot down my neck, telling me _yes_—_God, I love you_—and then we were all tightening muscles and clenching teeth and pounding hearts against the rising magma inside us…

And we erupted. Hard and heavy and together. It was like liquid flames bolting through me, that intensely gratifying rush; my head fell back in a cry that echoed Lockwood’s.

There was a real risk of tumbling off the chair, maybe tipping it over in the process.

And then it was over.

A moment passed, then another. We stayed as we were, clamped around each other as if letting go might break us. When I finally loosened my grip and let my arms drape lazily down Lockwood’s back, I was struck by a great weariness. Tipping my head onto his shoulder, I gave a deep, satisfied sigh.

He leaned back in the chair, holding my limp form in his arms. Weak laughter bubbled from his chest, a rather cute after-sex habit of his.

“Good?” he breathed.

“Good,” I sighed into his neck.

“And you know the best bit?”

“What?”

“Nothing got on the chair. There isn’t a spot in sight.”

“Shut up.” But I was grinning right along with him. I swatted his shoulder with a sluggish hand. It probably had the impact of a snowflake brushing an oak tree. With monumental effort, I lifted my hips to help him slide out of me. He was right, as it happened; we’d managed to contain most of the mess. Thank goodness. Poor Holly might have up and quit otherwise.

Once Lockwood had taken care of the condom and secured it with a tight knot, we lay back together. I draped an arm across his chest, listening to his heart, and we basked in each other’s warmth for a while. Right then, snuggled up with Lockwood, soft kisses at my forehead, I felt ready to doze the day away. To stay here and snooze until the first of our friends returned. My blood stopped rushing, calming like the sea on a sunlit morning.

Then, at some point halfway to sleep, I was swooped up from the chair. Lockwood’s arms were wrapped about me; my legs, weakened as they were, curled around his waist. We made our way to the couch, where he set me down gently. And when he knelt down for a kiss, my eyes were already closed. It was a sweet and heady one—the type of long, lazy kiss that only prolonged physical exertion could bring about.

And, well, we _had_ given Joe and Esmeralda the Second a run for their money that morning.

Lockwood drew away and said, “You should rest. You look knackered.” He paused for a moment. “Not to flatter myself or anything.”

“You never do.” Remembering Mrs. Bathgate’s colourful insult, I gave him a smile, which ripened into a rather unattractive yawn. “Hand us the afghan?”

He did so. The afghan was a checkered woollen quilt knitted by George’s mum ages ago. It had been draped over his chair opposite Lockwood’s; now I was cosying up with it. I decided I would deal with my jumper and knickers later. The heavy blanket was warm enough for now. Lockwood patted me down, making sure I was comfortable. “All right, Luce?” he said.

“Yeah.” The look on my face was probably quite dopey. I didn’t care.

Lockwood’s smile was peacefulness itself. A kiss to my cheek, another under my ear, and he moved to pick up his shirt. The paper I’d mashed under my thigh lay abandoned next to it, and he glanced at the papery scraps. “Listen—you sleep. I might try to salvage that _London Times_. There _was_ an article on the Shoreditch Raw-Bones manifesting as a monster in a child’s closet that I was quite looking forward to. Tea later?”

“Always. Hey, Lockwood,” I said, catching his hand just in time, “you know George’s chair?”

“Of course.”

“Well...” I smiled, letting my drowsy eyes fall shut. “I think we just permanently lost the right to bash him for not wearing pants in it.”


End file.
